Songs of the Press 



Bailey Millard 




Class _£ SS^ZS. 
Book__„,Xl-E^S(o 
CofiyrigM^ L%oJL 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



SONGS OF THE PRESS 

AND OTHER ADVENTURES 
IN VERSE 



BY 

BAILEY MILLARD 



SAN FRANCISCO 
ELDER & SHEPARD 

PUBLISHERS 
I902 



PSsszs 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

MAR 23 1903 

Copyright Entry 

CLASS' A/XXc. No. 

COPY B, 



COPYRIGHT, I902 
BY BAILEY MILLARD 



The Murdock Press 



To where you, patient in your pain, 

Are lying, O dear one of mine, 
I send these songs born of a brain 

And voice not tuned to airs divine. 
It seems a deed of unblest birth, 

This placing these in your blest hand, 
They are so sealed in sad unworth, 

But, Mother, you will understand. 



CONTENTS 

THE NEWSPAPER BALLADS 

PAGE 

SONG OF THE PRESS 9 

MARTYRS OF THE ART ROOM ... 12 

THE STAR WRITER 15 

THE LAMORE SCOOP l8 

AT THE CITY DESK 22 

LITERATURE OF THE RUSHED 25 

THE ANCIENT JOURNALIST . 28 

OUR LADY FASTIDIOUS 30 

OTHER ADVENTURES IN VERSE 

the yosemite road • . . 35 

carlyle to jane 40 

the imperious dead 45 

muir of the mountains 48 

the star and the waif 50 

rhapsody of the rain 52 

song of the arctic summer 54 

the mastered men 57 

the austere catechist 60 

the crotalus 62 

the incommunicable 63 

voices that abide 67 

the ceanothus 69 

t' amo 71 

5 



CONTENTS 

U PIU NON VI LEGGEMMO AVANTE " 73 

THE MUSE IS DEAD . 74 

READING "ENDYMION n 75 

THE ROSE POEM 76 

THE LOVED OF ZEUS 77 

THE TRANSPORT 79 

TO CHARLES FERGUSON 8l 

RETURN OF THE VAQUERO 82 

THE WAYS OF DORIS 85 

WEARY 87 

THE INEVITABLE HOUR 88 

TUSITALA 90 

THE APACHE IN AMBUSH 93 

BACK TO THE DESERT 94 

PRAYER OF YOUTH 95 

THE MESSAGE 96 

SATIRE 98 

LOST RIVER 99 

TO EDWARD CARPENTER IN ENGLAND IOI 

THE DRONES OF TOWN 102 

THE RED MENACE ... I05 

TEUFELSDROCKH 106 

SONNETS 

A DIVINE TRESPASS I09 

THE HIGHER PATRIOTISM IIO 

THOREAU OF WALDEN Ill 

YOU FOURIER FOLK! 112 

UNDER THE OAKS WITH POE 113 

6 



SONGS OF THE PRESS 



' 



THE SONG OF THE PRESS. 

For the lumbering locomotive on the run 

A deep respect and deference I confess, 
But a fuller admiration greets the wild and free 
gyration 
Of the thousand rolling wonders of the press, 

Of the press, 
Oh, the wonders and the thunders of the press ! 

To the giant that unceasing turns the screw 

Of a great Atlantic liner I address 
A certain strained devotion while it fights the bluff old 
ocean, 
But 'tis nothing to my reverence for the press, 

For the press, 
To my dumb and blind affection for the press. 

See the league-long web of paper flying free ; 

See the glistening ink-black rollers pressing tight 
To the plates whereon the letters are fast bound in 
molten fetters, 
Letters telling tales of human wrong and right, 

Wrong and right, 
With a beatific bending to the right. 



THE SONG OF THE PRESS. 

When the cylinders are humming like the wind 

And the paper spindle 's whizzing through its stays, 
When the darting tapes are guiding sheets in sight and 
sheets in hiding, 
Then your comprehension 's tangled in the maze, 

In the maze, 
In the mighty, heaving, whirring, burring maze. 

When the printed papers down the formers glide, 
When the whipping folders whisk them through the 
lane 
And by fifties out they flutter through the ever-flowing 
gutter, 
There 's the fullest sense of garner and of gain, 

Precious gain, 
A most satisfying, gratifying gain. 

For here the work is finished that began 

Over mountains, over seas before the light 
Shone upon the local center where a people's zealous 
mentor 
Rounded out a day of labor in the night, 

In the night; 
Oh, the long, long day of labor and the night ! 

All completed, all accomplished is the toil 

In the service of the great minds and the less ; 



10 



THE SONG OF THE PRESS. 

Now, arising grand before us in a sweeping, swelling 
chorus, 
Hear the diapason boomings of the press, 

Of the press, 
And the full-toned vox humana of the press : 

" Of the mighty ones of Cosmos I was born, 

Of the labor and the will that ride the earth ; 
In their energy kinetic hear you not the cry prophetic, 

6 Here is scientific wonder at its birth' ? 
I am but a trumpet flourish for the works of greater 
worth, 

Nobler worth, 
For more glorious, more noble works of worth. 

" I am looking, I am looking to the light 

That is spreading in its high auroral curve; 
Whether God-made, whether man-made, I am but the 
humble handmaid 
Of the people, and the people I would serve, 

I would serve, 
For the highest of all missions is to serve." 



ii 



THE MARTYRS OF THE ART ROOM. 



THE MARTYRS OF THE ART ROOM. 

I come not with bold hexameters to batter down the 
idols 
Of a picture-minded people who love " art " as they 
love dress, 
For my voice is weak and fluttering when into song it 
sidles 
And you will find it ever kind to artists of the press. 

I know of the afflictions that beset the black-and-whiter 
Who may never choose his subject and who draws 
what he is told : 
I know his load is heavy, with no hope of getting 
lighter, 
And reward is not forthcoming, little glory, little 
gold. 

It is sad to see him taking orders from a layman making 
Up his schedule for a full-page illustration for the 
" sup," 
With a feeling for the values that would shame a 
drunken drayman 
Or the keeper of the kennels where you buy a collie 
pup. 

12 



THE MARTYRS OF THE ART ROOM. 

Sadder still to see him stretching out to fill two noble 
pages 
A most wonderful designing of the editorial mind 
For a holiday edition which the grave and solemn sages 
Have for weeks and weeks been planning to astonish 
all mankind. 

Sadder yet to note the frowning brow with which he 
greets the paper 
When he sees his best lines battered and his stipple 
clogged with mud, 
And a weird smirk on the lady who has cut the latest 
caper 
In divorces, then his eyeballs are afloat with angry 
blood. 

" They have routed off her lashes, they have smudged 
her alabaster 
Neck and chin with sticky dope. It 's all the same, 
Whether good or bad the drawing, it is sure to meet 
disaster ; 
And down there in that left corner, oh, why did I 
sign my name ? 

" They have etched that battle picture so it 's eaten up 
by acid, 
And the lines are full of nightmare and the whites 
are a disgrace, 

13 



THE MARTYRS OF THE ART ROOM. 

And that asinine plate-nailer, with his donkey smile so 
placid, 
Has let his cursed hammer fall upon my poor 
girl's face." 

But although the black-and-whiters can relieve their 
hearts by curses, 
The despairing color-workers have no language to 
address 
To the subject of their torments, and I may not in 
these verses 
Sing the sad lay of the martyrs of the modern color 
press ! 



14 



THE STAR WRITER. 



THE STAR WRITER; 

OR, "THE SKATE'S" LAMENT. 

I bring in a great sensation, that is worth, on honor 
solemn, 
More than any other story in the batch, 
And the brainless copy butchers cut it down to half-a- 
column, 
But his rot they rattle up without a scratch. 
Oh, the star, oh, the star, 
Oh, the shining, shining star! 
They print all the senseless stuff that he can hatch. 



He's a faker of the rawest, I can swear on twenty 
Bibles, 
And they know it, but they laugh at honest me. 
It will take a dozen lawyer men to patch up half his 
libels 
And each one of them will charge a whopping fee. 
Oh, the star, oh, the star, 
Oh, the high-priced, low-viced star ! 
You may have him if you wish for him, but none of 
him for me. 

15 



THE STAR WRITER. 

With dry wine he heats his liver and he smokes two- 
f or-a-quarter ; 
Beer and stogies are the best that I afford ; 
And he calls himself a journalist, while I 'm a plain 
reporter, 
And to see his style you 'd take him for a lord. 
Oh, the star, oh, the star, 
Oh, the high and mighty star! 
He deems himself no lower than a lord. 

He gets all the soft assignments, while they put me on 
the tough ones, 
For they know that I can dig and get the nub 
Of a story he 'd fall down upon, and while I fight the 
rough ones, 
He is lolling on the sofa at his club. 
Oh, the star, oh, the star, 
Oh, the shining, shirking star ! 
Yes, perhaps he's playing poker at his club. 

He is sent off to do yachting, he is detailed for 
conventions, 
And he loafs at watering-places and the like, 
And the paper never questions his most bald and crude 
inventions. 
It 's enough to make a truthful writer strike. 
Oh, the star, oh, the star, 
Oh, the incandescent star ! 
How he shines at watering-places and the like ! 

16 



THE STAR WRITER. 

They let him sign his scroll-work and it swells him 
like a bladder, 
And he thinks that he *s a genius on the write ; 
But when you come to merit he 's not three rounds up 
the ladder; 
For he could n't smell a story if 't was near enough 
to bite. 

Oh, the star, oh, the star, 
Oh, the overrated star! 
And they give him my best copy to rewrite ! 

There are men in every station traveling on their 
reputation, 
But at that game he can give 'em cards and spades ; 
He will fall down on a story without any hesitation, 
And still keep on a-shining, for his glory never 
fades. 

Oh, the star, oh, the star, 
Oh, the empty-headed star ! 
He has nothing but his halo, and that never, never 
fades. 



17 



THE LAMORE SCOOP. 



THE LAMORE SCOOP. 

" Train robbed at Lamore," came the message, 
And it made me spring out of my chair. 

We were just closing up our edition 
And there was n't a clock-tick to spare. 

I fired to Lamore a rush lightning, 
And waited with fingers in hair. 

" Three miles south/' swift came back the answer, 

" Nobody to go for you now." 
" But our correspondent ? " I queried. 

" Died Monday." "Will you go?" "Yes; how?" 
" Hire engine," " None ready." " Ride horse then, 

Or bicycle, jackass, or cow ! " 

" All right," was replied, " but it 's raining, 

And I '11 charge you a dollar an hour." 
" Call it ten if you rush in the story," 

And I sat back with countenance sour, 
For of all the blest dough-heads and asses 

Here surely was flower of the flower. 

18 



THE LAMORE SCOOP. 

We waited and waited near press-time ; 

The minutes were nuggets of gold. 
But at last the old telegraph rattled 

And the fool at Lamore slowly told \ 
" Nothing in it ; 't was only a hot box ; 

That robbery story don't hold." 

But a tip came from Goshen— they knew it, 
And the Times men had covered it well. 

'T was a scoop and a big one, I gathered, 
And the man at Lamore was a sell. 

I 'm afraid that some pretty strong language 
From my lips at that moment there fell. 

My call upon Goshen was frantic : 
" Send the robbery— rush it, d. q." 

" Nothing definite known at this office/' 
Came swiftly to add to my rue, 

And I pranced 'round the shop like a demon 
With ten thousand imps to subdue. 

In a moment the sounder was clicking, 

And I read it all off in a flash : 
" Have you got the train robbery covered ?" 

It asked with its dot and its dash— 
Lamore date. Again that fool rustic, 

Or some other dolt just as brash ? 

19 



THE LAMORE SCOOP. 

No ! Glory ! 'T was our girl reporter, 
Who chanced to be there on the train. 

" Filed two thousand words on a hazard," 
She wired, and my joy was insane. 

The treasure, the darling, the angel ; 
She had run all the way in the rain ! 

Her story was graphic and simple, 

Not one little sentence awry. 
The robbers had captured a fortune, 

But 't was one thief's misfortune to die, 
And a brakeman was shot in the stomach 

And the end of his braking was nigh. 

We hustled the stuff as it came in, 
And I gloated in triumph to see 

That the story was full and well-rounded, 
Just as every good story should be. 

At the tail of it— there my heart fluttered— 
I saw her " Good night. Jessie B." 

We beat the whole town with the story. 

The Times had enough for a sign 
And a small head, with laughable figures, 

While the World had n't even a line. 
'T was the very best beat of the whole year, 

But hers was the triumph, not mine. 

20 



THE LAMORE SCOOP. 

They may cry down the newspaper women, 
They may tell them to go home and sew, 

They may preach and pray over and scold them, 
But for this girl reporter I know 

That rather than lose her forever 
We 'd let any staff man of them go. 



21 



AT THE CITY DESK. 



AT THE CITY DESK. 

It's a wonder that dear manager has left a man for 
local ; 
He has sent out all my writers on his foolish, fancy 
schemes ; 
There's a rattling double murder and I need good 
men to poke all 
Over town to get the story, but he has to dream his 
dreams. 



That sensational elopement of the rich girl and her 
lover 
Needs a half-a-page and pictures, but it 's little that 
he cares 
For he won't wake up till press time, and he thinks 
that I can cover 
All the city with these skatelets and a score of empty 
chairs. 



If I sent out on the murder that fool college chap he 'd 
chowder 
Up the story, for although he's full of Latin and 
of Greek, 

22 



AT THE CITY DESK. 

It would take a hundred thousand pounds of brown 
prismatic powder 
To arouse him up to action, he 's so wooden and so 
weak. 



Now, my boy, you must see to it, that lean lady poet 
ceases 
To get near me with her verses, and from out the 
building coax 
That queer, old dried-up animal who 'd have us print 
his thesis 
On political economy among the Fiji folks. 



There 's a whistle down the pipe to ask just how we 
missed the " riot " 
Of the strikers, swelled and padded by those fakers 
of the World, 
And the telephone 's a-ringing, for it never can keep 
quiet ; 
How I wish that into Hades all its bells and things 
were hurled. 



Oh, it 's great to be a desk man, for his life is full of 
glory! 
Yes, of glory and of luxury and ease it 's always full. 



23 



AT THE CITY DESK. 

Here's a note from the proprietor a-killing my best 
story, 
For the man we would have roasted has a business 
office pull. 



Oh, they're resting on their details and they're 
dreamy and they 're dopy, 
And that cursed court reporter has to go off on his 
spree, 
And the star men do the dude act and forget to send 
in copy, 
But there 's some one has to hustle, I can tell you, 
and it 's me. 



24 



THE LITERATURE OF THE RUSHED. 



THE LITERATURE OF THE RUSHED. 

44 How do journalists grind their grist V 1 — Robert Louis Stevenson, 

How do the journalists grind their grist? 
Learn, sir, from the lay of an optimist. 

Scuttering in on the train, 

Crowded and vulgar and hot, 

Jostled at elbow and back, 

Writing " society " rot. 

Scratching a pad on your knee, 

With pencilings jagged and rough; 

Interrupted by telegrams three : 

" Why the blank don't you rush in your stuff?" 

Or, perhaps, you sit down at the side 

Of the crude rustic telegraph plug 

Who wires off your screed while you scrawl 

And by his fool questions are dug : 

" That word ' cut ' ? Why, I thought it was ' cat/ 

That ' Johnson ' ? Looks like it was ' Jones/ 

Guess you never learned how to write." 

And so on, in spite of your groans. 



25 



THE LITERATURE OF THE RUSHED. 

Or crushed in a stale, stuffy hall 

Where you write down the speech of a dunce 

While flanked by a hundred old hens, 

Eighteen of them cackling at once ; 

And even if all take the floor, 

While the chairwoman screams like a hawk, 

Still, still you must follow the trend, 

Though the trend be a tangle of talk. 



And when you sit down at your desk 

To write up a long interview, 

On one side the type-writer clicks 

And your poor head is dictated through 

By the great star who never can write 

But bawls in a regular flow, 

And you grind while they click and they clack, 

Whether you love it or no. 



Or grabbing each sheet while you write, 

A boy takes it up to the room 

Of the night man whose job is to feed 

The great typographical loom. 

As you scrawl, thunders break up above ; 

Their roarings your tired ears rend, 

And clenching your fingers you cry, 

" How the deuce did that last sentence end ? " 



26 



THE LITERATURE OF THE RUSHED. 

Wise men read the paper and say, 

" He split his infinitive there, 

And the wrong tense he used in this place. 

Such rhetoric— is n't it queer? " 

It ought to be perfect, of course, 

And never by any chance mushed — 

Smooth of phrase, clear of thought and well-turned, 

This literature of the rushed. 



27 



THE ANCIENT JOURNALIST. 



THE ANCIENT JOURNALIST. 

I saw him close the door and shuffle out, 

A broken man, 
Full of incertitude of self and doubt 

Of what there ran 
In new-age harmony the world along — 
The new world, singing its new song. 

Too old to know the later way of life, 

Too old to feel 
Or grasp the meaning of its rush and strife, 

Too blind to steal 
More than a glimpse of that which cast 
Its light upon him as it shimmered past. 

And this he knew that day in its first woe, 

For he had thought 
To keep somewhat within the ebb and flow, 

Know what was wrought 
In this wide world of working and of wit, 
From day to day, and sense the worth of it. 



28 



THE ANCIENT JOURNALIST. 

But anciently none better knew the signs 

That told of war 
Or peace or brooding change. He read the lines 

And saw afar. 
His times were times of sturdy views, 
And what he surely knew for news was news. 

But now has sprung a race of pressmen pert, 

Born of the age 
Of cleverness, who frisk and featly flirt 

With pen on page ; 
With them he cannot join, and if he try 
His pen but stiffly turns, and turns awry. 

Old man, and not yet old (so swiftly flies 

Time's stream with those 
Who slave where whirls the press), small is your prize 

At this dread close 
Of your long service. Would that you might greet 
That recompense of labor which is meet. 

But still a certain glory sits you there ; 

I would not change 
You in your place for highest or most rare 

In all the range 
Of pressmen, good or bad or worse, 
Who cleave to cleverness nor know its curse. 



29 



OUR LADY FASTIDIOUS. 



OUR LADY FASTIDIOUS. 

She receives her assignment 
With air condescending 
From the desk man so gracious, 
Who fears of offending, 
Though deepest misgiving 
His bosom is rending 
That she '11 not pursue it 
To good, fruitful ending. 

It takes but a trifle 
From duty to flop her; 
She must be assisted 
By blue-coated copper. 
She '11 turn back in a minute 
If aught be improper, 
But if she 's determined 
There 's nothing can stop her, 

She 's mindful of weather ; 
It mus n't be sloppy ; 
Her gown she 's a care for ; 
She 's fussy and f oppy. 

30 



OUR LADY FASTIDIOUS. 

Should there be a shower 
She '11 bring in no copy, 
And if reprimanded 
Get red as a poppy. 

Her face is what makes her, 
You list to my ditty ; 
It is n't her work, for 
She '$ not very witty. 
But there is no other 
In all the great city 
So queenly, so dainty, 
So proud and so pretty. 

She misses good stories ; 
Suppose that the rest did? 
They 'd be thrown from the office 
Where snugly they 're nested. 
But the powers overlook her, 
She 's never molested. 
If an editor chide her, 
He 's sure to be bested. 



She knows how to manage 
Desk men if they scout her. 
She can play the grand lady 
Or rank out-and-outer. 

31 



OUR LADY FASTIDIOUS. 

She can cry if they happen 
To quizz or to doubt hct 
She 11 tear up her copy 
If they dare to flout her. 

7 75. as a reporter 
There 's nothing will cover 
Her rank imperf ectior: s 
And no power above her 
Can hasten or check her 
Or pull her or shove her. 
Then why do we keep her] 
Whv, all of us love he 



OTHER ADVENTURES IN VERSE 



THE YOSEMITE ROAD. 

Up where the gray peaks serenely take counsel together 
My desire mounts as lightly, as lightly as wind-wafted 

feather ; 
But I go with no haste, for all time in the road lies 

before me, 
And my roan ambles gently as if with a joyance he 

bore me. 
I ride by the red banks, by gulches and waterworn 

sluices, 
Exulting in spring and its earth-smells and liberal 

juices. 

All the delicate firstlings of leaf-flocks on branch tips 

are swelling, 
Unrolling, outspreading and gleaming and tremblingly 
telling 
Their rapturous story, 
Unfolding the glory 
Abiding in Nature's all-compassing breast, 
Each leaflet narrating with ardor and zest. 

Ah, road ! I am with you to ride and to ride where you 

lead me, 
And on your rare sights and calm joys to most royally 

feed me; 

35 



THE YOSEMITE ROAD. 

You open the way to the ultimate heights of adventure ; 

Your promise is sweet, and if ill befall I shall not 
censure. 

When pious aspirants to hills and their holy sincerities 

Fare hither their faith is renewed in the infinite verities ; 

You guide to the Summits of Solace, remotest immu- 
nities 

From the clamorings strange of the hasting and hiving 
communities. 



The airy affairs of the birds in their business of nesting 
And of squirrel philosophers grave that on high boughs 

are resting, 
The stream babbling nonsense to bowlders of gray, 

freckled granite 
Below where the maidenhair trembles in breezes that 

fan it, — 
Each of these makes quick captive a wayfaring fancy 
of mine, 
And my heart gives a leap 
As in passing I peep 
Up the towering shaft of a bold sugar-pine. 

There at last are the snow-peaks, in virginal chastity 

standing ! 
Through the nut-pines I see them, their ranges and 

ridges expanding. 

36 



THE YOSEMITE ROAD. 

Ye peaks! from celestial-wrought sanctities benisons 

casting, 
Ye know not your puissant influence, lifting and 

lasting : 
Nothing factitious, self-conscious or impious bides in 

you; 
Your faith it is stalwart and truthfulness ever resides 

in you. 
On your high serenities 
No hollow amenities 
Nor worldly impurities cast their dread blight ; 
August and courageous, you stand for the right ; 
The gods love you and lend you their soft robes of 

white. 



Down by the bridge where the white tumult dashes 

with thunderous 
Roarings and splashings and wildest of wild sprawlings 

under us, 
We speed, horse and rider, and clattering carelessly, 

wildly go, 
Swift reaching the meadows beflowered where rillets 

so mildly flow. 
By the pine-bordered, sweet-scented, sun-favored flat 

we pass slowly on, 
While a music is wafted from somewhere, unearthly, 

iEolian. 



37 



THE YOSEMITE ROAD. 

Here hovers the question, 

" What is this suggestion 
Disquietly brooding o 'er stream and o 'er grass ? " 
Yet on to the pinewood and thicket, unheeding I pass. 



Rumorings, murmurings low and obscure intimations, 
Mysterious whisperings, thrillings and awesome ela- 

tions ! 
From that interspace vast there what is it the wind is 

forth sending? 
Does it augur a vision ? Is aught of an evil impending ? 
The tamaracks listen and listen and feel the strange 

awe of it. 
You tall pine, bent backward affrighted, oh, tell what 

you saw of it! 
Ye domes, looking down with that feigning of placid 

indifference, 
Ye know, O ye wise ones, the source of this fear and 

this reverence! 



Across the great gorge there the cliffs arise mystical, 
magical, 

And a cloud-puff swims over the gulf space so hell- 
deep and tragical. 

Dismounting, I fearsomely, cautiously move to the 
brink of it, 



38 



THE YOSEMITE ROAD. 

The wonder, the wonder eternal to feast on and drink 

of it; 
I creep between bare granite rocks to a high shelf's 

. extremity, 
And with dizzying terror and rapture commingled look 

down on Yosemite! 



39 



CARLYLE TO JANE. 



CARLYLE TO JANE. 

After Mill had told them of the loss of the " French Revolution" manuscript 
which the historian had lent him to read. 

Praise God, he *s gone at last ! A score of words 

Had told the tale of it, but we must have 

A babblement of hours and hours. Ah, well ! 

I 'm sorry for the man ; he seemed to be 

Nigh daft, and pale he was as Hector's ghost. 

And his bewildered wrestlings ! His wild eyes ! 

He scarce could mumble forth the awful words 

Which came to me as sentence. Oh, how flimsy 

That sad pretense I made ! What did I say ? 

I know I spoke no ill. His grief was such 

I must respect it and I did ; but there 

Between us lay the dismal, ghastly fact — 

The manuscript I lent him was no more ! 

Thrown by a zealous flunky to the flames, 

With other rubbish stuff ! "Well, don't lament," 

I said; "another I can make, to all 

Intent the same ! I said it, yes, and laughed ; 

For men may laugh on scaffolds. He laughed, too, 

Like any nervous girl. 

O Jeanie, lass ! 
The book is burnt — that travail gone for naught! 
The book! The book! Gone— every sheet! Our book, 

40 



CARLYLE TO JANE, 

My Jeanie— yours and mine— our own, own bairn ! 
God sent none other children but our books, 
And this, our proudest, lies in ashes, dead- 
Swept out by some low hireling's broom. That book 
Was wrought from out my veins; my heart's best 

blood 
Was spread on every page. And you, my lass, 
Bright as a steady lamp, beamed there beside 
My desk and lit my weary-plodding pen ; 
And when the coming chapter lay but dim 
Within the hazy background of the brain, 
You, by your kindly patience, listening close, 
Braced its weak claim to clarity. And when 
You glowed with warm approval then I knew 
I had wrought well, nor needed other sign 
To make me know the dream I dreamed was true. 
No, Jeanie, 't is no marvel ye are sair ; 
Your arms, close clinging round my neck tell that, 
As do your tears. 

" We '11 make another book- 
It "'s very counterpart?" Oh, you are wild! 
I told Mill that but now. Words, lassie, words ! 
The idlest words ! This business of books 
I 'm done with for all time ! What do they care 
For true books who are so well pleased with false ? 
Do they deserve such meat as I have given — 
They who deem cat's meat fittest food for man ? 
But from their stupor I could sting these slaves,— 
Had thought to do so once, but now no more. 

41 



CARLYLE TO JANE. 

Yes, I could make 'em wince, the pompous churls* 
And churchmen, too, and smooth respectables 
Of all kinds and degrees ! 

Mill ! What cared he ? 
Flabby fanatic theorist, full of wind ! 
He offered pay. Ye heard, lass— pay for that ! 
A rain of ingots— would it stead a man 
For such fierce work— a book born of his soul? 
Could he have rightly priced one precious page 
Of that good book, he never would have left 
The thing to hands of saphead servitors. 
He never sensed its worth. He could not read 
Aright a single line. So dense, so dense 
These animate clothespegs, these poor beechen brains ! 

" Write it again ? " Nay, lassie, I have done 

With all this writing. Let us gang elsewhither— 

To Weimar— Weimar, eh? Why not? But there 

It would be books again— more books; No, no! 

I couldna keep me from the writing there. 

Let us go overseas to some wild land, 

Some Michigan, where men can work like men 

And be men. I am sick o' this dour town, 

This London— ugly wen on Nature's face. 

Let 's to the desert, lassie ; we but eke 

A living — ay, a starving, in this place; 

And there I would break whinstone or cut peats. 

Oh, I would work with axe, or spade, or hoe, 

Or anything but pen ! 

42 






CARLYLE TO JANE. 

There, there! I hurt 
Ye, lass, and ye were hurt full sair, God kens ! 
In that drear Craig-o-putta you 'd enough 
Of desert, dear. We '11 nae go overseas, 
but where ? " To desk — write it again ? " Ah, why 
Do you so mock and mock? You 've never writ 
Ten books in one and had the whole ten burnt. 
"Write it again ? " Oh, cease ! Don't tell the tale 
Of it to tempt me. Well I know it all. 
"And once again could write it ? " Oh, I could! 
Calonne, Marat and Mirabeau. What use? 
Fall of Bastille ! Ay, ay ! We warmed to that ! 
"Can warm again," say you? Yes, can! But gods! 
All that strained heart-work ! Ay, the old Bastille ! 
Let 's think, let 's think : The rebel din, the yells 
And roar and rush and wild upturn of faces. 
Oh, yes, I could! "And will?" insist you— " will? " 
Ay, Jeanie, will! It shall be done ! It shall ! 
It shall! That's good, lass, smile. 

I know they care 
Not for me ! I can see their flashing harness 
In the Park. You smug ! you prurient smug ! 
You self-pleased highnesses ! you valiant ones ! 
Who there amang ye all could write that book 
But once? What man of ye could write it twice? 
Yet / can do it and I will ; yes, I. 
I '11 write it and I '11 throw it at your feet, 
And you may trample it. What say you, lass? 
"They cannot trample that? " Weel, if they did 

43 



CARLYLE TO JANE. 

'T would last as long. They cannot hurt the thing 

Or me. I '11 build it better than it was 

And it shall stand, a book to last for ages. 

I do not write for them, but for that time 

When men shall get their sight ; when they shall see 

With clear eyes, not gold-blinded ones! 

Now, lass, 
To bed, to bed ! This night I 'm here with you ; 
To-morrow I shall be with old King Louis, 
Bien-aime, and see him die again ; 
See crimson lightnings of revolt strike France, 
And live the fierceness of mad peasants' rage. 
But, ah ! the task of Robespierre himself 
Was not more dread, more terrible than mine ! 



44 



THE IMPERIOUS DEAD. 



THE IMPERIOUS DEAD. 

Unto a desperate heart, 
Here on thy sands, what hope, O Sea, 
Canst send to-night and what of sympathy 

As here I sit, alone, apart, 
Watching the white foam from thy surges start 
And swiftly shoreward flee? 

Last night we walked this shore, 
Slow, with ineffable joy as swift 
As the fleet foam which came from thee, a gift 

Of gladness, thy pervasive roar 
Making a music I may hear no more, 
A lyrical uplift ! 



On wave-tips to the skies 
A trail of liquid light ran higher, 
Yet paler than my pulsing heart's desire 
When the large moon the fall and rise 
Of her sweet bosom lit and her dark eyes 
Grew lustrous with love's fire. 



45 



THE IMPERIOUS DEAD. 

But what had she discerned 
Within mine eyes that the strange fear 
Of me should dart and dim and disappear 

In hers and dart again ? I turned, 
Though all my animate being burned 
To press anear, anear! 

Now once more to the brim, 
To drink and ever after have 
The cup and my heart in exultance lave. 

But swift love's fire waned dim 
Before the interposition silent, grim, 
Of a forgotten grave ! 

That lowly, weed-grown mound 
Uprose and outspread high and far, 
An awful, imminent alp, to bar 

From me the sweet that I had found 
Most sweet of all ; forbiddingly it frowned 
And hid from me my star ! 

"From my sad, sorrowing sight, 
Dead face/' I moaned, "canst thou not keep 
Thy features white ? Dead form, why dost thou creep 

Out of the mold to mock the night, 
This night of all blest nights most blest, most bright? 
Dead eyes, oh, why not sleep ? " 

46 



THE IMPERIOUS DEAD. 

And now we drift away, 
Apart, and shall I surely know 
If that low mound may ever keep it low ? 

Will those dead, wistful eyes obey 
My word and that dead form in darkness stay, 
No more to grieve me so ? 

A cloud floats low upon 
The waves, belike a black-sailed bark, 
And two stretch forth white hands from out the dark. 

Illuminate with flame of love is one 
And one is cold, her sweet face white and drawn 
And her snow-bosom stark ! 



Now one— the quick— sinks fast; 
The dead remains, her two white hands 
Still stretching forth to me upon the sands, 

As one who to the ultimate cast 
Keeps faith and willingly forgives the past 
And weaves anew love's bands. 



I read thy answer, Sea, 
Writ in the influent foam and tide 
And in the cloud : Thou sayest she that died 

Still lives love's holy life for me, 
And that for me no other bride may be 
But that bright spirit bride ! 

47 



MUIR OF THE MOUNTAINS. 



MUIR OF THE MOUNTAINS. 

A lean, wild-haired, wild-bearded, craggy man, 
Wild as a Modoc and as unafraid, 
A man to go his way with no man's aid, 
Yet sweet and soft of heart as any maid. 

Sky-loving, stalwart as the sugar-pine, 
Clean, simple, fragrant as that noble tree, 
A mountain man, and free as they are free 
Who tread the heights and know tranquillity. 

A man whose speech hints of no studied art, 
But careless straying as the stream that flows 
And full of grace, poetic as the rose 
Which to the wind its pure song-petals throws. 

A relish of the larger life is his 
And reverence rapt and wonder and deep awe 
For any beauty Nature's brush may draw, 
A man of faith who keeps each primal law. 



Along the secret ways of Nature he 

Makes careful quest, and she unto him speaks 

And shows him that so eagerly he seeks,— 

How toils the Hand that sculptures all the peaks. 

48 



MUIR OF THE MOUNTAINS. 

The skylands brown, the blest sky-waters blue 
He haunts and has a curious, kindly eye 
For glaciers, where his bold feet dare to try 
The dizziest summits and their threats defy. 



A coarse and stinted fare to him is rich 
If it be seasoned with the savory 
Sweet airs, while his glad eye is feasting free 
Upon the blue domes of Yosemite. 



He makes his bed amid the sheltering rocks 
Where at his head a blood-red snow-flower blooms ; 
There sleep more sweetly comes than ever comes 
In the stale, heated air and dust of rooms. 



Unarmed, he greets the grizzly in the woods, 
Birds trill him friendly notes from tree-tops tall ; 
The ouzel, thrush and quail and whimsical 
Gray squirrel and raccoon— he loves them all. 



Alone he treads the heights, yet not alone, 
For with him go sweet Thoreauand the blest 
Kin-spirits all who share his noble zest 
For Nature's ways and with him walk and rest. 



49 



THE STAR AND THE WAIF. 



THE STAR AND THE WAIF. 

A star looks in where she lies, 

Fair, so fair, asleep, 
With wide, blue, fixed and staring eyes, 
A sinful, sweet-faced sacrifice, 

Fair, so fair, asleep. 

The beams of the star intermit, 

Fair, so fair, asleep. 
And darkling and drooping and sadly flit, 
Full, oh, how full of the pity of it ! 

Fair, so fair, asleep. 

Now the eye of compassion is clear, 

Fair, so fair, asleep. 
Through the gloom of the room doth it reverently peer 
And sees a wan smile on the dead face there, 

Fair, so fair, asleep. 

"Oh, now you are free from shame, 

Fair, so fair, asleep/' 
Sighs the star, with pitying passion aflame, 
" Now you are free from the shame and the blame, 

Fair, so fair, asleep. 

50 



THE STAR AND THE WAIF. 

" But, ah, when I saw you before, 

Fair, so fair, asleep, 
Would I had cared for you, guarded you more, 
A guide to you been in the street's strange roar, 

Fair, so fair, asleep. 

"Yet this did your fate decree, 

Fair, so fair, asleep. 
But not of the lost and accurst shall you be ; 
Come, spirit, speed to your home with me ! 

Fair, so fair, asleep." 



5* 



A RHAPSODY OF THE RAIN. 



A RHAPSODY OF THE RAIN. 

Wind-swept, rain-spattered, wildly free, 

I tread the upward trail, wet tree-arms beckoning me. 

Again I see in Nature what is mine; 

I feel the friendship of the kindly pine, 

And, passing, lay my hand on its moist dress 

In soft caress. 

Now all the savage in me gloats, 

For on a humid air-wave floats 

The thrumming of the forest lyre ! 

Higher I mount and higher, 

Singing a Dryad's storm-wild strain 

In the mad rapture of the rain ! 



A fugue of echoes upward sweeps, 

Making strange music on the steeps. 

As each bold, high-swung turn I pass along, 

I feel a rarer joy of life and hear a sweeter song. 

The soft rain drips from God's high eaves 

And lisps its true love to the leaves. 

(But truer far my love 

For her above!) 



52 



A RHAPSODY OF THE RAIN. 

Oh, what to me their creeds and cults 
While on these sacred heights my soul exults? 
What all their sordid gain? 
I know the rapture of the rain ! 



The ridge I reach— a sight— 

The sea spread out in swirling light ! 

And up the wooded reach 

Come roarings from the beach. 

But only misty welcome signals me 

From yon cold shimmer of the sea. 

No, not for that I dared the storm, 

But for a greeting sure and warm 

From one who waits alone— 

My own— my own! 

Ah, there I see her low brown roof at last ! 

Heart, heart of mine, why throb so fast ? 

A gust sweeps down the rippling drops amain, 

Again the rapture of the rain ! 



53 



SONG OF THE ARCTIC SUMMER. 



SONG OF THE ARCTIC SUMMER. 

June on the Yukon, genial June, 
And all my soul awake for it ! 

Would I might round a Norland rune 
And Norland music make for it. 



Red fire-weeds blaze along the banks, 
Backed by the pines' dark mystery, 

And wild birds flutter and give thanks, 
Or sing their southern history. 



Their thanks they sing on bending reed, 

For here the day is long for them, 
And here the night is lost, indeed, 
And full the hours of song for them. 



Near is night's noon and yet— this light; 

It scarce is comprehensible. 
Of what we know of day or night 

Is the circling sun insensible ? 



54 






SONG OF THE ARCTIC SUMMER. 

Afar beyond the fishing boats, 

Beyond that darkling dot of earth, 

That tree-crowned islet, round which floats 
A glory that seems not of earth, 



Between two cloud-bars red he swims, 
Bright skeins of color weaves in them, 

And now he darts and now he dims, 
And stains of purple leaves in them. 



His ruddy glow reflects below, 
Making the waters pink with it, 

And opal wavelets gleam and flow 
Upon the tide and sink with it. 



Midnight ! and still above the lines 
Of sky and river, fair and bright, 

A golden book-mark there he shines 
'Twixt two day-pages, rare and white. 



Midnight! and still his rays are rife; 

My hopes and dreams all meet me there. 
Full symboled is the deathless life; 

Here and hereafter greet me there ! 



55 



SONG OF THE ARCTIC SUMMER. 

He hath not set, yet doth he rise, 

He riseth in serenity; 
May we thus keep in brighter skies 

Our orbits through eternity ! 



56 



THE MASTERED MEN. 



THE MASTERED MEN. 

The City lifts her lure and smiles, 
The millioned City smiles because 

She knows the magic of her wiles 
And how to her she draws and draws. 



She knows full well a man will sell 
His soul to live his precious days 

In an effluviated hell 

At some sad corner of her ways. 



That all the virtues of the vale, 

Of tree-fringed hill and grassy down 

He madly leaves for street-walks stale 
And brick perspectives of the town. 



He, when her call he hears, leaves all 
His bird-blessed, leaf-draped heritage 

To slave and run at whistle-call 

Or pale and droop in some foul cage. 



57 



THE MASTERED MEN. 

He leaves the freedom of the plain, 
The freedom of the glade and glen, 

The freedom of the wind and rain 
To join the tethered, mastered men. 



In lieu of sacred airs of lake 
And mountain he, in ignorance, 

Inhales the odors sewers make 

And dwells in din and dissonance. 



If him the servile cheer and toast 
When the red gold he sought is his, 

He sadly finds they honor most 
That which he has, not what he is. 



The hale and simple way of life 
To which his sober mind was used 

Is changed for Trade's swift-whirling strife, 
So complex, multifaced, confused. 



Lost is his day of real things; 

In vain, in vain his lamp he rubs ; 
To him stale life it only brings, 

The sham life of the streets and clubs. 



58 



THE MASTERED MEN. 

On village maids the City feasts, 

On their bright hopes and brighter eyes, 

On their red cheeks she and her beasts 
Feed, and for truths she gives them lies. 



Still on fresh blood she feeds and feeds 
And still she tramples Nature's laws 

To glut her never-sated greeds, 

And still she draws, and draws, and draws f 



59 



THE AUSTERE CATECHIST. 



THE AUSTERE CATECHIST. 

To what do you respond— 

You who would link with me 

In that fine federacy 

Called friendship? Are you fond 

Of those sad folk unblest 

Who make of life a jest? 

Does Dante bore you, is old Plutarch tame 

And Emerson an empty name ? 



Do you want tact ? 

Shrink you from any cosmic fact 

Or influence elemental? 

Would you be instrumental 

In war upon a weakling race for Mammon's sake 

And urge a moral reason, make 

A bombast plea 

Of ethnic, high philanthropy? 

Who are your heroes— men that fight in rings? 

What moves you? Love you him that sings 

A glavering ballad ? Oh, do you 

Respond to echoes or to voices true ? 

60 



THE AUSTERE CATECHIST. 

Do you want courage your best self to be, 
And live in others' cheap expectancy ? 
Fear you to front the facts of life ? 
World-contacts do you shun and holy strife? 

Have you lost faith, 

Is God a guess, religion but a wraith, 

Your heart lukewarm? 

Do you bow down before the shrine of Form 

And basely kneel 

At altars of convention nice, and feel 

Not the fine and good 

In wholesome humanhood, 

Although it wear the apron of a smith? 

Is Christ to you a myth? 

Subtly and always is your sense alert 

To serve the ends of self ? For the inert, 

Crass, gilded fools who know no law 

Have you the least of awe ? 

If to all these you say 

An everlasting " Nay," 

Then shall we make an intimate, holy pact and be 

As brothers to the end, to dare and dree 

World-onsets at their worst. . . . Ah! your " Nay' ' 

rings so true, 
Were I but worthy so to do, 
I would a spirit kinship claim to you. 

61 



THE CROTALUS. 



THE CROTALUS. 

A coil of browns, a whirr ! 

A dart of flame! 
A child's shrill cry, amid the grass a stir; 

She shrieks my name! 
In agony she calls 

And calls. O God! 
Why hast thou made this slimy thing that 
crawls 

Thy chastening rod? 



62 



THE INCOMMUNICABLE. 



THE INCOMMUNICABLE. 

Above the sea the moon's slim horn 
Pales fast in gray and growing light, 
And now I see the death of Night, 

The old-new marvel of the Morn. 



The waters glow, a burst of rose 
Reflects soft glory on our sails ; 
Now upward shoot Dawn's shining trails, 

And swift the dazzling wonder grows. 



But I stare dull at what is wrought, 
As by the hearth one sits and stares 
Into the fire that brightly flares, 

My utmost vision set at naught. 



This mystery deep, and wide as deep, 
Of day-birth, as of child-birth, lives 
In man's mind vaguely. It but gives 

Suggestions such as come in sleep. 



63 



THE INCOMMUNICABLE. 

But what is borne from out the vast 
Of sky and sea, so faint, obscure, 
Amorphous, wordless, should be sure 

And plain as that plain, stalwart mast. 



Though he read glibly ancient glyphs 
And wisely scorn the riddling Sphinx, 
What secrets bide man little thinks 

Within the clouds that cap the cliffs. 



While his brief ken may be employed 
He yearns for what the blue arch bars, 
To know the story of the stars, 

To read the verse writ in the void. 



His earthling Science, mole-eyed, creeps 
Along the paths that lead to light. 
What says to her the star-strewn height, 

What speaks to her from out the deeps ? 



And if the secret springs defy 

Man's eager touch nor will unclasp, 
Shall there yet lie beyond his grasp 

The answer to his "What ami?" 



64 



THE INCOMMUNICABLE. 

Oh, would that it were fit and meet 
That there might speak unto our race 
The spirit of illimitable space 

That sits aloft, aloof, discrete ! 



An east wind sweeps the sea, and soft 
From out its murmurs come the words, 
Faint, faint as notes of far-off birds, 

That singing, wheeling, soar aloft : 



" Not star-wise shall your people grow 
Nor god-wise shall they ever be 
Till from their false ties they are free 

And free from all their sham and show. 



" To read Apocalyptic signs 

They must be free from sins of flesh, 
For while their lusts their souls immesh 

They may but faintly see the lines. 



"Free must they be from crimes of trade, 
From foolish vauntings of their worth; 
And they must free their sorry earth 

From war, from rapine and from raid. 



65 






THE INCOMMUNICABLE. 

"From those sad lures that have enticed 
And made him prey to vulture's beak 
Man must turn face and humbly seek 

The plain and simple way of Christ. 



" In vain his orisons prepense ; 
He shall not reach to Heaven fair 
Though he may pile a Pelion prayer 

Upon his Ossa of offense. 



"Let him look up, let him arise 

And scorn the pathway he hath trod; 
Then shall the finger-touch of God 

With sight divine thrill his dull eyes ! " 



66 



VOICES THAT ABIDE. 



VOICES THAT ABIDE. 

The sovereign poet will not cease to sing 

While notes arise from any living thing 

Of which he sang. Earth still will gladly hail 

The voice of Keats in its last nightingale. 

What soars above us softly? Hark, friend, hark! 

Blithe Shelley's song swells forth from that blithe lark ; 

And see where wings his soul ! Yes, 't is the same 

With many more the clear fire of whose fame 

Is fanned by sight of objects animate 

Or void of life when they are seen with eyes 

That look with fondness on the poet's state 

And are most blest when soft before them rise 

His strains celestial. Doth not Wordsworth's voice 

Speak from the modest primrose? I rejoice 

When darkly flits a waterfowl alone 

Through evening skies, for there I see mine own 

Good Bryant soar; and if a broad sea marsh 

Spreads green or gray before me I can hear 

The voice of that sad Southron, never harsh, 

But always sweet, — the liquid-toned Lanier. 

And where a rugged island greets mine eye 

I hail the homely Stevenson and Skye. 

67 



VOICES THAT ABIDE. 

The busy, singing brook I gaze upon 

Gives glimpses glad of sweet- voiced Tennyson ; 

And when a bell booms sadly forth in low 

Dirge tones it peals for me the name of Poe. 

The stately arches of cathedrals old 

Say "Emerson." When to mine ear I hold, 

On any shore, beside what waves and foams, 

A chambered shell, it whispers to me, " Holmes ! " 



68 



THE CEANOTHUS. 



THE CEANOTHUS. 

My hills are poets ; all the year 
They sing to me their lays sublime ; 

They sing joy songs with voices clear 
And sweetest sing in April time. 



Then they their purple robes put on, 
Robes spun in April's lilac looms, 

Their royal flowered robes they don, 
For then the ceanothus blooms! 



Oh, kingly poets are my hills ! 

But kingliest in April time, 
For then each green breast gladdest thrills 

And pulses with most royal rhyme. 



These are the days, the singing days, 
When my king-poets send aloft 

Their highest, purest songs of praise, 
Strains of the ceanothus soft. 



69 



THE CEANOTHUS. 

Faint, faint at first, then deeper toned 
Till all the banks are gowned and caped, 

And my hill monarchs, high enthroned, 
Are in the ceanothus draped ! 



Stay, Spring ! still let my monarchs wear 
Their robes and sing their songs sublime ; 

Let it be April all the year 
And always ceanothus time! 



70 



T AMO. 



T AMO. 

From the Italian of Cavallotti, 

I seek through the pages of fable 

For the sweetest way love I may tell, 
With what words on the island Calypso 

Tried Ulysses, the bold, to impel, 
In what accents the love-devoured Venus 

Communed with the hunter that day ; 
I study the pages of fable, 

And / love thee— naught else I can say. 



From the sweet songs of Orpheus I gather 

No word that will help to impress 
On thy heart a new sense of my loving, 

Though closely the leaves I address ; 
What he sang to his love I would sing thee, 

My voice I would gladly make ring; 
But my poor notes are feeble and broken. 

I love thee— 'tis all I can sing. 



In the verses of Sappho my questing 
Is rewarded by nothing more bright ; 

7i 



r AMO. 

I am weary of pages so musty. 

Ah, here in the dark is a light ! 
Here it is — here is the phrase, dear, 

That I sought for so long ! It is Greek. 
Construe it? Why, yes. T is— "I love thee! 

And those words alone would I speak. 



» 



72 



"PIU NON VI LEGGEMMO AVANTE." 



"PIU NON VI LEGGEMMO AVANTE." 

" We read no more that fatal day 

Of the love tale of Lancelot 
And Guinevere/' Oh, do not lay 

Your fault, Francesca, and your blot 
Upon the book, for it doth say 

Not merely how those fell, but what 
Befell their sinning and the way 

That they atoned for what they wrought. 

That tale, that sorry tale, I ween, 
Had you read further, lady fair 

Of Rimini, you would have seen 
How they of Camelot, perjured pair, 

Were slain by love, nor had you been 
Betrayed by false Paolo there, 

Nor felt the vengeful blade so keen- 
Had you read further, lady fair! 



73 



THE MUSE IS DEAD. 



THE MUSE IS DEAD. 

The Muse is dead and with her dies, alas ! 

Appreciation of her noble worth! 

When now we hear a line of classic song 

'Tis oftener intoned with pert burlesque 

Than otherwise. Sincerity serene 

And Reverence, are both the souls of you 

Forever fled from this our poor, blind age ? 

Come back and make these babbling creatures sane, 

The drivel of their drawing-rooms displace 

By that sweet, sacred sense which makes man man 

And woman woman,— such a worthy sense 

And humor true as had our wise forbears 

Who, fired in heart and soul by Freedom's torch, 

Wrought out for us that liberty which we 

So much abuse. Rise, Reverence, oh, rise, 

And here be reinstated, even here. 

Sincerity, if thou canst strive against 

Such flagrant mockings and such meannesses, 

Return to us before the last true speech 

Be drowned in floods of glavering babblement! 



74 



READING "ENDYMION." 



READING "ENDYMION." 

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever." 
Dear Keats, 'tis very plain to me you never 
Knew Madge, more beauteous than Helen of Troy. 
Oh, she is far more grief to me than joy ! 



75 



THE ROSE POEM. 



THE ROSE POEM. 

Like that gold rose I '11 shape thee, 
With bright rose leaves I '11 drape thee, 

And thou shalt be divine, 

O budding song of mine ! 

In my hand's hollow grow, 

No matter, swift or slow, 
So that thou be a rose. 



Fond-nurtured hour by hour, 
Grow in my hand, my flower 
Of song ! I spare no art 
To make each petaled part, 
Each leaf and every tint 
A blossoming truth, nor stint 
My labor or its throes. 

Fragile and fragrant rise, 
My flower, a lyric prize ! 
Grow in what sun and rain 
Haunteth the poet's brain. 
. . . Thou 'rt finished ! Each sad fault I see, 
And in my hand I crumple thee, 
Thou false, false rose! 

76 



THE LOVED OF ZEUS. 



THE LOVED OF ZEUS. 

Look on the roll, star-strewn, illuminate, 

Of sages, of the great, the time-revered. 

Who of all these through life his true course steered, 

Lived his philosophy ? Not the sedate, 

Calm Socrates who left to austere fate 

His close kin-folk and stroked his Sophist beard 

'Midst fellows fond ; not Plato learned who reared 

In Athens grove his school, god-loved and great, 

But never lived his dream ; nor yet that wise 

Old teacher of the walking school, far-famed, 

Nor fawning Seneca of Nero's court, 

Nor Antoninus, he who kept his eyes 

Upon the stars while his brute soldiers maimed 

And blinded Christians in arenic sport. 

Nor did that noble pagan, good Montaigne, 
Cleave to the worthy creed he made ; and when 
Rousseau, arraigned by his own contrite pen, 
Made known his grosser self, the damning stain 
Was plain revealed. So, too, in that sad strain 
Which to Carlyle was life we see again 
That sages are but men, not more than men, 
Not like the gods that on Olympus reign. 

77 



THE LOVED OF ZEUS. 

But that white light which fiercely beats upon 

The deeds of those who raise philosophies 

Found one at Concord who feared not its fire : 

It vainly searched the life of Emerson. 

A constant habit of high thought was his ; 

He lived the laws he taught and none taught higher. 



78 



THE TRANSPORT, 



THE TRANSPORT. 

A deep blue bay, a bristle of masts, 
A transport sailing out to sea, 
And a flutter of white that waves to me 

As I strain to the sight of it while it lasts, 
And he sails out to sea. 

He would go, he would go, though the way was far ; 
The gleam of the guns and the uniformed line 
Caught his young fancy, as once they caught mine 

In a righteous war, in a holy war, 

And he sails forth on the brine. 

That clutch of his hand I can feel, I can feel ! 
And I know 'tis the last that an unkindly fate 
Will give to me soon or give to me late. 

Away he is borne on a fleeting keel, 
Away through the Golden Gate. 

Oh, gladly I 'd give him again and again 

To a war of worth, to a war of right ; 

Yes, they might slay him there in my sight ; 
But not for Trade and its treasoning men 
Would I see him go forth to fight. 

79 



THE TRANSPORT. 

I have lost the white flutter, my tear-wet eyes 

Have lost it forever and him, I know ; 

The smoke dims the stripes of the flag I loved so 
And still love though it waves in this sad emprise 
Of empire in which he would go. 

Down to the islands to fight for Trade, 
Past the sad islands where, in the name 
Of Christ, we have taught all they know of shame 

And shown them their nakedness, there unafraid 
He sails to the lure of fame. 

Where the tide-rip battles above the bar 

The ship breasts the wind ; I am losing her now 
And losing him, too, who stood in her bow 

And waved and waved as he sailed afar. 
Oh, blest be the heart of him now ! 

Only the smoke-drift over the wave 
I can see as I look to the watery west, 
Only the black smoke, black and unblest 

As an unholy cause, and there to his grave 
Sails my bravest, my truest, my best. 



80 



TO CHARLES FERGUSON. 



TO CHARLES FERGUSON. 

Here, where the leaves the whole year through 
Are green and roses bloom 'midst dew 
And fruits hang fair, I dream anew 

Of that gray, arid zone 
Which, as it bears and ripens you, 

Is fruitful as our own. 

Your gospel of the open air 

And of the free God dwelling there 

Strikes at the ramparts of Despair 

And lays the stalking wraith 
Of theist fiction which you dare 

In your fine, fragrant faith. 

The truths sublime which you address 
To this sad age of storm and stress, 
This wilderness of worldliness, 

Where you cry out your word, 
Will ever forward, forward press ; 

They must be heard ! 



81 



RETURN OF THE VAQUERO. 



RETURN OF THE VAQUERO. 

Once more I am under your spell, 
Gray land stretching far to the peaks ; 

Drear land and dear land, it is well, 
For your spirit to mine again speaks, 
Of blessedness primal it speaks. 

I was tempted afar, I was sold, 

But they never shall sell me again 

To the ease of town shelters that hold 
Subtle charm for the pale, indoor men, 
Sordid cities that lure sordid men. 

Free ! how I have chafed to be free ! 

Year followed dispirited year 
The while you were waiting for me, 

Waiting calmly to welcome me here ; 

Now, chastened, I come to you here. 

I am come as one who has felt 
The Punitive Hand in its haste, 

While before the false altars he knelt; 
I am come to forget in this waste 
A life that was waster than waste. 
82 



RETURN OF THE VAQUERO. 

Waste? You are no waste, gray old plain, 
But rich in rich gifts to the mind 

Net born of inanity vain ; 

Arid fancy may aridness find, 

But your beauty is not for the blind. 

It is good to be here; it is good 

To see junipers storm-proof whose roots 

Burrow deep ; good yon lone Cottonwood ; 
Good, afar there, the blue blur of buttes— 
My religious, my sky-loving buttes ! 

Beyond where the gray greasewoods nod, 
Where my gaze the bold sentry peaks bar, 

A buzzard is spying abroad, 

Mystic spirals are leading him far, 
And he pleaseth mine eye like a star. 

Enough of repressions, enough 
Of constraints and conformities sere 

And complexities ; let the good, rough 

West wind of this plain sweep them clear ; 
Its breath makes me franker and freer. 

And out of my ears let it blow 

All echoes of that dreary school 
Which of Nature is always the foe 

83 



RETURN OF THE VAQUERO. 

And which for his wealth hails the fool, 
Drive out all the drawing-room drool! 

Ah, eloquent land! I have heard, 

Blown abroad on your wild, vagrant airs, 
A balm-bringing, sense-soothing word, 

A word to calm all my despairs, 

A whisper of starry affairs. 

Wise land, in your silences wise, 

Your immensities one spreading scroll 

Of deep revelation to eyes 

That can read, let me read, swell my soul ; 
Here is room for the growth of a soul ! 



«4 



THE WAYS OF DORIS. 



THE WAYS OF DORIS. 

Maiden, in this mild mood 

You seem something grown 
Afar from elf-loved wildwood, 
In tamest haunts of town, 
Not this morning's thing of tumult that raced the hill- 
side down, 
With wild, wind-fluttered gown. 

Your ways the fancy capture; 

I love them, each and all, 
Gray qualm and reddest rapture, 

And when your blithe notes fall 
Adown the darkening valley amid the redwoods tall 

I love their sweet home-call. 



In hours when all the magic 

Of life is gone amiss, 
And there looms aloft a tragic 

Blanc to bar out bliss, 
All tears and sighs and murmurs I can toss in the abyss, 

So potent is a kiss. 



85 



THE WAYS OF DORIS. 

Soft as the vine caresses 

Your window when, contrite, 
The chastened wind confesses 
Unto the ear of night, 
So soft your footstep presses amid the fern leaves 
bright, 
So soft, so soft and light. 

To you glad eyes are lifting, 

Star-eyes of flowering grass; 
For you the rill is shifting 

Its gleaming crumbs of glass; 
The laurels bend and whisper their love for you, sweet 
lass, 
And bless you as you pass. 

What wing is Fancy trying? 

From this far would you be? 
For the gay town are you sighing 
That knows not bird or bee? 
Ah, that blithe lark-note has caught you, brought you 
flying 
Back to the flowers and me ! 



86 



WEARY. 



WEARY. 

I would be far from this; 

I would be where the green waves kiss 

The coral isles ; 
I would return no more; 
I would abide for aye upon that shore 

Where ocean smiles. 



There I would live my dreams 
Making to be that which now seems, 

And look the whiles 
Through the gold haze that smooths 
Harsh outlines and the tired spirit soothes. 

Ah, my blest isles ! 



87 



THE INEVITABLE HOUR. 



THE INEVITABLE HOUR. 

Where will it find me, where? 
Within this sweet, wide-windowed room 
Where I look out upon the green and bloom 

Of hills high rising in blue air 
And that sky-hallowed peak, pure as true prayer? 
If here, here let it come. 



Or will it seek the trail 
And meet me there beneath a pine 
With needles glimmering glad and breath benign? 

So be it then. Why should I quail, 
When by the kindly tree the light shall fail 
From out these eyes of mine ? 



Or in the street-whirl mad— 
A misstep, clangings of a bell 
And then oblivion? Well, ah well! 

To make such parting from this glad, 
Sweet life were sad, but not so sad 
As one that I may tell : 



88 



THE INEVITABLE HOUR. 

Where greedy, fond heirs grieve 
While of the fat will steadfastly 
They think, and where a specious, paid-for plea 
Goes up from cleric lips that cleave 
To cant, where high-feed doctors give life false 
reprieve, 
And cat-foot lackeys look for things to thieve. 
Not there, O Death, meet me ! 



89 



TUSITALA. 



TUSITALA. 

Here is the beach of gray old Monterey 
Where he was used to walk who made so bright 
The hours with his blithe presence and the light 
Of whose kind hazel eyes made glad the day 
While tales he told of his far Galloway, 
From which so sadly he had forced his flight. 



He left the charm of his sweet humanhood 
Here in this place, the charm that Nature's men 
Possess and radiate. I feel it when 
The low-bowed cypress in the wind doth brood 
Upon his memory and the green pinewood 
Smiles proudly, pleased to have inspired his pen. 



That gypsy Tusitala, whose strange life 

Was one fierce battle with the reaper grim, 

We keep in mind; his wild tales grow not dim, 

But start up in us like a call of fife 

To volunteers. We loved his love of strife, 

We loved his pirate way, and we loved him. 

90 






TUSITALA. 

We knew that he was wise, but now we know 

No local oracle was he, but one 

Who spoke for every land beneath God's sun. 

We knew that he was brave, but did not go 

So far with him that we could see the foe 

He faced— that foe from whom he would not run. 



When Death bent over him and his white page 
Grew black before his eyes he made no cry, 
No moan, but said : " I have not time to die! " 
And, brushing Death away in noble rage, 
Turned to his folio and wrote his sage 
Epistle or his tale of tragedy. 

Yet they denied him bread-work — they, the wise 
Among us who refused his proffered screeds. 
He would not cheaply write to suit their needs. 
His worth such little minds could never prize. 
When his great soul blazed through his fervid eyes 
They could not see, nor sense his splendid deeds. 

Our shipmate he with whom we voyaged far 
To islands of the south for pirate hoard 
And high adventure. When the typhoon roared 
He laughed, for Faith was ever his clear star ; 
Nor did he care when past the harbor bar 
For better wage than just to be aboard. 

91 



TUSITALA. 

But he has sailed beyond his treasure isle 

And walks the deck with Scott and Hugo now, 

Or speaks with Dumas grave and tells him how 

He loves his art, or listens to Carlyle; 

There sometimes he may see sweet Milton smile 

And to King William make his loyal bow. 



92 



THE APACHE IN AMBUSH. 



THE APACHE IN AMBUSH. 

See him, prone on his belly behind the mesquite, 
In his ears a low music, a song that is sweet ; 
Is slaying so sweet? 

He is waiting and waiting ; ah, well can he wait ! 
For he feeds upon fancy, he feeds upon hate; 
How well he can hate ! 

Yonder dust marks the victim, so soon to be dust, 
And behind the mesquite there grows rankly the lust, 
The blood-lust, the brute-lust! 

The crisp cactus-clump and the green yucca stand 
In the range of the marked one ; ah, well, that sure 
hand 
Never fails— cunning hand! 

'T is not long now to wait, not much longer to wait ; 
And he feeds upon fancy, he feeds upon hate; 
How well he can hate! 



93 



BACK TO THE DESERT. 



BACK TO THE DESERT. 

Call it the land of thirst, 
Call it the land accurst, 

Or what you will ; 
There where the heat-lines twirl 
And wild dust-devils whirl 

His heart turns still. 



He sighs for no green earth 
Where the glad spring makes mirth 

To glad skies above. 
Oh, for the desert grim 
And what it means to him 

Of life and love ! 



Back to the land he knows, 
Back where the yucca grows 

And cactus bole ; 
Where the coyote cries, 
Where the black buzzard flies 

Flyeth his soul! 



94 



PRAYER OF YOUTH. 



PRAYER OF YOUTH. 

Dear God of Truth, O be Thou ever near me, 

Lend me Thy countenance, on me Thy grace bestow ; 

Keep me aloof from them that never fear Thee, 

Make strong and true my heart and help my soul to 
grow. 



If Wisdom reave from me my blest illusions, 
Rob me of zest of life and make me to despise 

Its truths, or lead me to profane intrusions, 

Then keep me far from Wisdom, let me not be wise. 



Let not the sham life of the tinsel city 

Whose false gods all the blazing fires of folly fan 
Blast the green tendrils of my human pity ; 

Oh, let me still revere the sacred soul of man! 



95 



THE MESSAGE. 



THE MESSAGE. 

Fresh wafts of fragrant morning stray- 
Up through the canon from the bay. 
My sunny station on the hill 
Looks down on mazy woods that fill 
The eye with gay, dew- jeweled green 
Midst which the songsters trill and preen. 
Aloft there in the western sky 
Bold Tamalpais lifts him high; 
So near in this clear air he stands 
Methinks with him I might shake hands ; 
For friendly face he bends on those 
Who would enjoy his kinship close. 



But not this hour such sights may claim 
My nighest thought. Of one who came 
One glad day to this roof and read 
His lilted lines and broke our bread— 
Of him I dream. His calm, kind face 
And rhythmic notes still haunt the place. 
Over his passion-fluttered page 
He grandly voiced his noble rage 
Against the guilty who despoil 



96 



THE MESSAGE. 

And make a prey of those who toil, 
Against the selfish men of greed 
And all that foul and wolfish breed. 
On these he launched his lyric curse 
And lashed them with hot whirls of verse. 
His airy kin approval lent, 
While veteran redwoods bowed assent, 
And greeting on a soft wind-wave 
The genius of the canon gave. 



singer of the godlike brow ! 

1 would that thou wert with me now 
To look into this hill-rift here 

And read Old Nature's chapter dear. 
Melodious marshaller of words, 
A minstrel thou to match the birds ; 
And ever hast thou stalwart stood 
In the first file of humanhood. 



Once came a message from thy pen 

Unto me here, and now again 

I send it forth from this far height 

To thee upon a shaft of light, 

Swift o'er the leaves by dew-dots pearled : 

" My heart to thee across the world ! " 



97 



SATIRE. 



SATIRE. 

Wiser the honest words of a child 
Than the scornful scholar's fleers ; 

Richer a fortnight of crudest faith 
Than a score of cynic years. 



98 



LOST RIVER. 



LOST RIVER. 

Raptly I listen to the singing pines 

Which blend their music, River, with thine own; 
Raptly I trace the portents and the signs 

So thickly in these awesome airs bestrown. 



Thy waters make white tumult there above, 
But here, in deep pool sinking, move in black 

And circle like a fear-tormented dove 
That turns, death-dreading, to fly back. 



But, Stream, there is no backward flight for thee ; 

Thou must to this scene die and pass below, 
Fulfilling now that darker destiny 

Prefigured at thy birth amid the snow : 



These glad, green wilds to lave and love and leave, 
Thy singing here to cease, nor more to blend 

With songs of these sad pines which grieve and grieve 
What is to them thy melancholy end. 

99 

L«fC. 



LOST RIVER. 

But this I know: far from thy present strife 
Thou 'It glide again by tree and trailing vine. 

Intent upon thy brighter after-life, 
New faith I feel in after-life of mine. 



ioo 



TO EDWARD CARPENTER IN ENGLAND. 



TO EDWARD CARPENTER IN ENGLAND. 

I marvel, friend, that arrant Aristocracy, 

Soft-palmed, anaemic, still endures 

Such riving thunderbolts as yours; 
That never has your drum-call of Democracy 

Cowed those vain creatures in the Court 

Of Idleness wherein they sport; 
I marvel that the flat notes of Hypocrisy 

Beside the vibrant voice of you 

Are heard, the false tones with the true; 
And strange it seems to me that base Plutocracy 

Thinks sacred things may still be priced 

And would for vile gain barter Christ 
Yet hold, brave heart, unto your high Theocracy, 

Your God whom none can buy or sell ! 

Not all the harshest notes of Hell 
Shall drown your rolling drum-voice of Democracy ! 



IOI 



THE DRONES OF TOWN. 



THE DRONES OF TOWN. 

A MIDSUMMER FANTASY. 

From this high window niche above the street 
I look down on the dreamers and the drones, 
So bent upon their nothings and their noise, 
So much concerned with vague affairs of soft 
Inconsequence. These indolent, shiftless ones, 
These aimless insects on the heated plate 
Of pavement, haste them with a hurried tread 
And such an air of circumstance as none 
Display whose toil is wholesome, sane and true. 
Impracticals, why idle here? Why mass 
Yourselves to go about this fruitless toil 
Of idly heaping nothings upon nothings ? 
O indolents, why throng you aimless here? 



Now thoughts float back to me of large affairs 
I once transacted on the green bay shores 
Near old Point Reyes. An ancient city there 
Peopled by all the free and flying things 
That love the sea and marsh and trees and skies 
Made me its guest while I my dealings had 
With its blithe citizens. I walked the streets 



102 



THE DRONES OF TOWN. 

Of clear and wind-swept sand and often sailed 

In stout feluccas with the fisher-folk; 

Once lay all day upon a little deck 

And commerced with the calmly eloquent clouds, 

From them much profit taking, as I thought. 

Another day I tented on the beach 

And bathed and ran and lazed in shade and sun, 

Which tanned my city skin a golden brown ; 

So much of profit did I reap that day 

And more the next. For then I slowly strolled 

Where poppy gold gleamed in a generous field 

Which gave me of its hoard though not a flower 

I plucked, but left each one to smile and lift 

Its happy head to Heaven. That afternoon 

I bargained for and bought a store of wealth 

From abalone shells filled full of gems 

And rarest inlays, marvelous to view, 

Yet not the least gray shell I brought away. 



Another day I strolled along the strait 
Gray-bordered on the north by stretching sands 
And on the south by stern-faced rocky scarps. 
The wind blew landward keen and cuttingly, 
Clouds scudded low and gulls were scurrying o'er 
The dunes, while wild ducks dotted all the bay 
To leeward of a lean, long arm of shore ; 
And kelp and sea moss floated in upon 

i°3 



THE DRONES OF TOWN. 

A tide as fleet as waters of a flume. 

And once a seal's black head shot upward swift 

And large, soft eyes sought mine with steadfast gaze 

As human as my own and unafraid. 

Much treasure floated in upon that tide 

And on that wind, a store that I still hold. 



And so for weeks of traffic such as this, 
And each day deeply breathing golden air, 
Until a lesser business called me home 
To idle here with dreamers and with drones. 



104 



THE RED MENACE. 



THE RED MENACE. 

Soft as a shadow creeps, he creeps; 
Light as a leopard leaps, he leaps; 

And swift as any dart 
Dashes his bright, keen blade, 
Flashes his glittering blade; 

And shall it pierce her heart? 



105 



TEUFELSDROCKH. 



TEUFELSDROCKH. 

When bristled by a sally rude 
Or jostled by a clown-mind crude 
Or piqued by plain ingratitude, 
For sweetest balm I always go 
To Teufelsdrockh of Weissnichtwo. 

When dollared dolts do condescend 
And all their vulgar breath expend 
Impressing me, I gladly end 

The torment and my time bestow 
On Teufelsdrockh of Weissnichtwo. 

Bejeweled ones and overdrest 
Will never his sweet peace molest ; 
They know he'd tear their clothes with zest 
And in the dust their baubles throw- 
Bold Teufelsdrockh of Weissnichtwo. 

Come, come my friend, oh, come with me 
Where you his kindly face may see 
And learn his clothes philosophy. 

You '11 love him well, oh, that I know,— 
Dear Teufelsdrockh of Weissnichtwo. 



106 



SONNETS 



A DIVINE TRESPASS. 



A DIVINE TRESPASS. 

To hearken to high privacies is base, 

But, ah, that "night of fine clear talk" which they, 

Our foremost mind and England's had! Oh, pray, 

Is it a sinful wish, in that rare case, 

That an impersonal Me, devoid of face, 

Or eye, but with hearing sense to stay 

In secret place securely hidden away, 

With no trace of a presence, not a trace, — 

A Me effaced, — had listened rapt and caught 

And kept the words those masters said, and known 

The sacred soul-touch of those two ? The sin 

(Call it divine eavesdropping, would you not?) 

Were it so vile? Ah, yes ! it were, I own. 

But what a rare, sweet trespass 't would have been ! 



109 



THE HIGHER PATRIOTISM. 



THE HIGHER PATRIOTISM. 

To England's Unwreathed Laureate, 

Best patriot of Britain, you who see 

With the fierce insight of a bold Carlyle ! 

More for your country's honor than her smile 

You care, intrepid bard. Deep graved should be 

The lesson you have given. Yes, low is he 

Who cannot blush for his poor flag when vile 

Hands fly it and its sacred folds defile 

In hellish war of Greed's foul captaincy. 

"My country, right or wrong?" A thousand noes! 

Though thundered from the mountain-top, I must 

Spurn that false word. True patriotic fire 

Burned in no heart where such an impulse rose. 

Better my flag were dragged in dust, for dust 

Is God-made dust, not Baal's blackest mire! 



no 



THOREAU OF WALDEN. 



THOREAU OF WALDEN. 

Lycurgus of the pen, austere and dread ! 
You made a stern demand upon our age, 
Nor shall we yet escape you. On your page, 
Which tempts to high adventure, we have read 
Most vivid, valiant truths that might have led 
From paths profane, if we, like you, O sage, 
Had seen the way. But in this desperate stage 
We darkly toil for bread and more than bread. 
You speak to our condition and provoke 
Heart-hunger and a longing for the free 
Exchange of all our false ties for the true. 
A voice ! It was your stalwart spirit spoke : 
"Oh, why not venture all for liberty ? " 
Great soul, a braver race must answer you! 



in 



YOU FOURIER FOLK! 



YOU FOURIER FOLK! 

God knows if you are right. I do not know; 

Into futurity I may not peer. 

You have fine faith, but O good friends, I fear 

That Humor, pledge of sanity, has no 

Secure place in you ! Still, though this be so 

You may work better things; the crude and drear 

Condition which we see about us here 

Perchance for you may take up staff and go. 

But when, intrepids, you Altruria build 

You must make man a something more than man. 

Tear wealth in bits, apportion every shred? 

But soon again hoard harbors will be filled 

With spendings of unthrift, unless you can 

Remold the weakling heart and scheming head. 



112 



UNDER THE OAKS WITH POE. 



UNDER THE OAKS WITH POE. 

To harrow me is your high purpose, Poe, 
But birds are trilling from the boughs above 
And through the leaves the sun sends beams of love, 
Warm love to all the animate world. Ah, no ! 
Your leaves I turn as idly as winds blow 
Those overhead. Your folk of Usher move 
With pale intent, though with keen craft you strove 
To set them strongly forth in grewsome show. 
My friend ! in this place plainly I perceive 
What ails your Active art : It never grew 
In sun and rain. But still it brings no bane 
To minds made hale by tonic airs. You grieve 
No heart that reads old Nature's story true, 
For ever frank that tale and ever sane. 



"3 



MAR 23 1903 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

lilllWIill! 

015 940 980 6 



